


slipping into coats

by Keturagh



Series: False Fruit [17]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Blow Jobs, Drinking to Cope, Drunk Sex, Established Relationship, F/M, Forbidden Love, POV Solas (Dragon Age), Public Blow Jobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:03:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22045318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keturagh/pseuds/Keturagh
Summary: So he made himself into a pattern she could wreck.
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Fen'Harel | Solas/Female Lavellan, Fen'Harel/Female Inquisitor, Fen'Harel/Inquisitor, Fen'Harel/Lavellan, Lavellan/Solas (Dragon Age), Solasmance - Relationship, solavellan - Relationship
Series: False Fruit [17]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1579504
Comments: 1
Kudos: 18





	slipping into coats

**“This is how I will choose / you: by feeling you / smelling you, by slipping / you into my coat.” (Oranges, Roisin Kelly)**

\--

Theirs was not the sort of arrangement that allowed, when she dropped a crumb of cake into her décolletage, for him to slip his arm around her back and press his mouth upon the subtle rise of her breast and gather the sugar, neglected there, onto his tongue.

His knuckle pressed discreetly to his mouth, as if to force his tongue from darting out to do just that, as she brushed the sweet from her skin, careless. He watched it tumble to the floor.

The brandy in Val Royeaux had not diminished in vapor or taste, and he was pleased with the way this intoxication made it easier for him to set aside his other cares and focus. On her.

On only her. Refusing to sing, even when bribed with sweets, stealing those sweets in any case and then singing just as easily once the rest of their company had taken up the tune. Pangara’s true anxieties were of a more subtler variety, really, and her reticence only an eye for the balance of the camaraderie among this troop.

 _This clan_ , he corrected, considering, and it was not so surprising that she should mark the pulse of this company with such particular finesse of judgement. Her gentle manipulations were plain to him, of course; it was as if watching an Orlesian conductor before strings, only its own quality of entertainment, though she would bridle to be compared to any measure of the ‘golden empire.’ And he would not blame her.

She was not minding him. Though he sat at her side, and occasionally her knee brushed against his by accident, her attention was on their assembled allies: Sera, groaning at yet another bard composing a Red Jenny ballad that made no mention of the sins of noblemen; Varric, holding court before a group of mercenaries out of Kirkwall with tales entirely preposterous; Dorian, sitting before the fire and complaining, loudly, of a chill that only he seemed capable of perceiving.

She was looking at him. Her knee pressed against his.

He looked away and sipped from his glass.

Theirs was not an arrangement that made it anything less than lewd for him to duck, covertly, to raise the scent of her skin, her hair, into his lungs.

And so when she shivered, he was surprised to find his mouth pressed against the back of her neck.

He jerked away, stood, and left the bench, left their empty cups parading down the honey-gold wood of the bar, left her with her back turned to him and her grip, tight, on the edge of the table.

She found him standing in the alley in the brisk winter night. She moved him against the wall. She held his mouth with hers; she rearranged the world completely.

He felt her remaking him, within it.

He shivered beneath her touch.

She murmured, released him. He felt as if he might fall forward, might fall into the sky; she slipped a warmth about his shoulders: a pelt, he realized. She tied it across his shoulders by leather straps. She pressed against him. He became everything hers beneath her warmth, and her soft desire, and her seedling claim upon the scorched trellis of his fate.

And she eased him to the ground.

He realized he’d been drinking like the world was going to end.

And she knelt between his hips, and asked into his ear, “Yes?” and he nodded, feverish, yes, yes, like this was his last night, like the cold over the world was rising up to claim him, too. And she took him, warmed him, so obscenely engorged, into her _mouth_ , and his head whipped back against the stone of the tavern walls, cracking there with a burst of mixed agony and ecstasy, and he groaned to be within her. The air was so cold on his exposed skin, but he buried his face deep on the fur she’d laid about his shoulders and a warmth all within his gut spread through his body; and she swallowed around him, and knocked his knee aside with her elbow, and he saw at once not only how he had misjudged her aims this night, but how she gloated her triumph for him to enjoy.

And he did, thrusting up between her lips — no care for the mindful eyes of Orlesian gossips who doubtless marked their pleasure; let them titter over the barbaric knife-ears rutting in the alley — she made him depraved with the way she _sucked_. The way she turned aside the fabric of the world and unknit the places that did not humor her.

So he made himself into a pattern she could wreck.

And she plucked those parts of him aside, one by one, until she was at the core of him; and he gasped with his fingers threading through her hair; and there was a scandalized gasp from a window above; and he burst within her — and she swallowed around him. And he spent within her.

And then he dragged her up. Kissed her swollen lips, and then ducked low, bit the skin above her breast, and, as she moaned, sought for a vestige of sugar there.


End file.
